Dust
by natida
Summary: Hermione lifts her head to look at him, and he leans sideways beside her, impossibly dark eyes fixed on hers. "Well," Scabior says lightly. "Who'd you kill, beautiful?" Wild West, Muggle!AU. Full version.


**Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. This is the full version; the abridged one which is actually submitted to the competition is in my profile, but doesn't have as many characters, backstory or pretty descriptions (I have trouble keeping things under 3,000 words!).**

 **I've done my best to make this as historically accurate as possible. The cattle drive Scabior references, for example, actually did take place in 1866 during the first large-scale effort to drive cattle from Texas to Missouri. The little universe I've created here is actually pretty detailed, but I couldn't cram in all the details, so maybe another story will surface someday. I've shipped Scabior/Hermione _forever_.**

 **I'm gifting this to provocative-envy, whose stories are absolutely _stunning_ and got me reading Muggle!AUs again. Thanks for writing craigslist Scabior for me!**

 **And thank you Lizzie, as always, for being an amazing beta!**

* * *

 **1868**

 **Fawkes, Arizona**

It isn't nearly as hard as she had thought it would be.

It's even _easy_ , really, to leave the bulky, painful weight of her life behind and set off with only what she can fit in a wagon and Harry and Ron at her side. She settles down in a part of the country that has a life of its own, where dust camouflages everything, be it sins or virtue—and she steps into her new life as if it's a memorized choreography: the squeaking of chalk against a board and the shuffling of her students' feet beneath their desks and the brownish haze of the air—

It's almost _too_ easy.

Hermione's never liked things that come easily.

 _Jittery,_ that's what Ginny calls her. She designs students' homework with too much precision and cuts her vegetables like it's a science, and Molly's learned not to ask why she's pacing about on the porch before bed—Hermione says she needs the fresh air, though Lord knows there's more than enough air to go around—and Hermione taps her fingers incessantly against schoolbooks and she settles, but her mind won't settle with her.

It's been five years since she, Harry and Ron arrived at the Weasley farm, and it's been five years since people have called her _Miss Jean_ ; five years since she forced herself to forget her real last name is _Granger_.

The man rides into town on a Wednesday afternoon that's much too sunny for anyone's liking, and she has to put her hand up to block the sun in order to make out anything under the brim of his hat. It takes her a moment to realize that he's in _shackles_.

She squints at Sheriff Mad-Eye, all scars and eye-patch, like some sort of pirate from those stories she used to read, as he rides ahead of his prisoner, hand clutching the reins of his own steed and those of the spry black mare behind him, and she knows that she ought to be more preoccupied at the clinking of the handcuffs around the stranger's wrists, but she's too busy staring at his face.

Because the man is looking at her from deep, dark eyes that would look melancholic if they weren't so goddamn sardonic—and he has high cheekbones, long dark hair in a messy ponytail and deeply tanned skin and he's perched on the saddle like he's right at home, really, as he looks at her.

And he _smirks_.

Hermione digs her nails into the wooden frame of the door and holds his gaze, even as Mad-Eye yanks the mare forwards—there aren't many streets in Fawkes, so she presumes that the man is being taken to jail—and she hears rather than sees Cormac stride up to her, hat in hand and a distinct swagger in his step. He always insists on escorting her home.

"Who is he?" she asks him.

"Some outlaw," Cormac says, watching with her as the sheriff turns the corner. "Sheriff was out hunting this morning and happened upon him right as he tried to rob a stagecoach and shot a man."

She raises her eyebrows. "He killed someone?"

"Nah," he replies. "Just grazed him; but the man's gone on to Malfoy Ranch—he's come from Kansas on business for Mr. Malfoy." Cormac kicks the dirt with his boot, and she's absently aware that she ought to be locking the schoolhouse now, instead of standing outside in the heat without a bonnet. "It's a grim sort of news, Miss Jean, and not the kind a pretty lady like yourself should be concerned about."

"From Kansas?"

"Yeah." Cormac looks uncomfortable. "A lawyer or something. The outlaw's fit to be hanged on Sunday, most likely. Ain't no one in town gonna let a man like him wander 'round. You ready to go, ma'am?"

Hermione keeps her eyes on the road. The dust has begun to settle and it's almost as if the two riders have been a mirage of some sort. There are faint chalk marks of simple arithmetic inscribed on her brain, but there's a problem here, a series of complicated calculations that start with the outlaw's smirk and end five years ago in a mine in Kansas...

She seizes her bonnet and locks the door.

 **…**

Her father used to give her math to do when she was young. School was too easy for her, and homework wasn't nearly enough to keep her mind occupied. Her mother used to say that had she been born a boy she might have run for president—as it was, she'd make a good teacher until she found a husband.

When she met Harry at the age of eleven, she'd helped teach him his letters. To this day, she feels solely responsible for his success in school, and even Arthur, now in Arizona, has her doing farm-related calculations that his meager education won't allow him. She's useful; she's busy.

She's _bored._

She follows the tapestry of footprints of the road back into town a few hours later, no books in her hand, a complex puzzle in her mind. There's blood beating through her veins and she's pulled back the days she and Harry used to ride across the plains with guns in hand and the fury of vengeance kindling them like fire.

Sturgis Podmore guards the jailhouse door, but she knows him and her mind's already assembled a list of variables and possible solutions and two minutes later she finds herself inside the sheriff's office. She takes hold of the rifle near the door, walks past Mad-Eye's desk, and comes to a stop in front of the iron bars.

"Who are you?" she asks.

The man raises his head—he's still wearing the hat, she realizes; how _melodramatic_ —and the corners of his lips twist and she catches a glimpse of his sharp, white teeth and maybe the tip of his tongue as he answers.

"The name's Scabior." He's leaning against the wooden bench of the cell, legs outstretched, the heels of his boots dragging sharply on the ground as he shifts, one long-fingered hand tapping against his knee. "Who's asking?"

"There's a question you're going to answer for me," she says, ignoring him.

"I ain't answering any questions, sweetheart," Scabior answers, lazy grin still on his lips, but his eyes glint darkly. "Not even from you lawmen—or _women_ —'less it's on a fair trial."

Hermione raises the rifle and points the barrel at his head, finger lingering on the trigger. He draws a breath through gritted teeth.

"I ain't working for the law," she says. "You answer my question."

And she knows there's no doubt as to whether or not she knows how to use the weapon; he can tell from the way that she's holding it and the way it weighs against the rest of her body—and he stands up slowly, not breaking eye contact for a second, the barrel following him as he reaches up and removes his hat slowly, stepping closer to the bars.

"What d'you want to know?"

She grinds her teeth together. "The man you tried to shoot—in the stagecoach—did he wear a glove on his right hand, and only his right?"

Scabior steps forwards and reaches out to stroke one of the bars of his cell, eyes still fixed on hers, wide and serious and vaguely amused. "Firstly, I _did_ shoot him, and I didn't miss—I was trying to put the fear of God in the coward, make him listen to me. I don't miss," he adds, and his eyes flash. "Ever. Secondly, yeah. He was wearing only one glove, and I suppose it must've been his right hand."

She swallows. "Short, fat man, with a face like a rat?"

He nods, once, lips barely moving. "Why?"

"Did he have a lot of papers in there with him?"

Scabior's eyes narrowed. "You said you had _one question_ —"

"Answer me."

"I don't take too kindly to rudeness, sweetheart—"

"You ain't in much of a position to negotiate."

He steps closer to the bars and closes his fists around them, tanned knuckles turning white, a ring on his index finger with a sole stone that looks terribly like topaz clinking against the metal. He looks her up and down, from the dusty boots beneath the worn calico of her dress to her face, hard and unforgiving behind the barrel. She has more freckles here than she used to at home.

"I suppose he did have a number of papers with him," he says, tilting his head slightly, gauging her reaction. "All rolled-up-like. Tried to take it with him when he meant to run."

She draws in a breath and slowly lowers the weapon, eyes unfocused as she takes in the information. And the thrill—the one she'd forgotten about in these past years of life that feel more like leisure than work to her—flows through her body like a wave and makes her fingertips tremble.

Scabior is still staring at her. The room is dim, lit only by a dirty window behind her and the slivers of sunlight that enter through the spaces between the boards of the walls. Hermione props the rifle against her leg and meets his eye.

"Not much of an outlaw, are you, trying to rob a stagecoach all on your own?"

His lips tighten over his teeth. "I've done it before. If peg-leg hadn't stopped me—" He smiles at her again, but there's no amusement in his eyes. "I've been known to do excellently."

They hold each other's gaze for a moment, and then Hermione glances at the window outside. The sun is beginning to sink in the sky, its blinding rays fading to rusty orange. Her time is running out. She turns back to Scabior.

"I've got a proposition for you."

He raises his eyebrows. "And what sort of proposition would that be?"

"I want to kill the rat-faced man."

The words hang between them, ringing in the eerie silence of the room. Scabior lets go of the bars and toys with the ring on his finger.

"Have you killed a man before?"

"Once."

"Shot him?"

"Drove a knife through his heart."

His grin disappears. "And where do I come in?"

"I need someone to help me get into the place. I need to shoot him and take his papers."

"What place is it?"

"Malfoy Ranch."

She thinks that he might have been expecting that answer; hoping for it, even, because there's a sudden gleam in his eyes that makes her feel both excited and uneasy. He grins slowly, dangerously. "I was hoping you'd say that."

 **…**

She's made the appropriate arrangements already—told Molly she'll stay the night with Hannah, pinned up her hair in the tightest bun she can manage, picked out the sort of gun she likes the best from the Sheriff's stash—and so when she lets Scabior out, hits Sturgis over the head with the butt end of the rifle and takes his horse, there isn't much left to do other than ride out towards the crags somewhat west of the Ranch.

"So what're you gonna do when the Sheriff shows up tomorrow?" Scabior asks when they pause behind a large rock, breathing hard, the horses sweating and shaking from the exertion. The light is failing quickly, and she can see the lanterns in Fawkes moving, the people like ants scrambling onto horses preparing to start their search. They won't get far. It's too dark, and Mad-Eye, crazy as he is, won't lead a party into coyote land in the dark, where plains and rocks splay out as far as the eye can see. At night a search is bound to be fruitless.

"I'll tell them you kidnapped me and took me as a hostage to exchange for Pettigrew," she says mildly, steering her horse and starting down a narrow path between the rocks.

"Ain't no one gonna believe that," Scabior says, and actually sounds surprised. "How d'you suppose I'd've gotten out of the cell without help? And the Malfoys'll be there—"

"I've no problem with seeing Lucius Malfoy dead," Hermione says coldly. "You can shoot him for all I care."

"You're adding two more kills to my roster, lady," he replies, sounding faintly annoyed. "Two kills and a kidnapping."

She turns to look at him. In the fading light, his eyes are piercing from beneath the brim of his hat, his mouth pressed into a frown. She smiles at him. "I set you free, didn't I?"

It's when they finally dismount, in a valley between the crags, that he steps forwards suddenly, pressing her between his body and the the horse as she's busy removing its saddle, breath hot against her neck, hands hovering at her sides—not quite touching, but there nonetheless—and she halts in her movements, stiffening as his nose skims her hairline.

"Or," he says in a low voice. "I could just kill you now and be done with it."

"You'd never get into the house on your own, there are too many men—and you want to steal his money, don't you?"

Scabior's chest is hard against her back, and she can feel his every breath, feel the brush of the faded-red neckerchief scratch against the back of her neck, the cold topaz of his ring brushing against her hip. "For someone who's set on making her second kill," he murmurs, reaching up to stroke a lock of her unruly curls which have escaped her braided bun. "You're awfully judgmental."

"I don't believe in crime for crime's sake," she replies, fingers tight around the straps of the saddle.

"And this is—what?"

"Revenge." She removes the saddle and gives the horse a pat. It ambles off to join Scabior's mare, and Hermione turns, nearly pressed up against him. It's almost completely dark, and the chill breeze of the night is harshly contrasted in the heat of his body.

"Well then," he says, and there's a smirk on his lips as he reaches up to remove his hat. "We've more in common than I thought."

He starts up a fire, small enough to not emit much more than a small trickle of smoke that gets lost in the blowing sand over the rocks that hide them from view, and they sit beside it, the horses resting nearby.

Hermione draws diagrams into the dirt with her finger, particles caking under her nail. She doesn't mind the discomfort—she has maps stuck in her head, and she feels a need to draw them. Scabior leans back on his elbows, chaps dark against the denim of his trousers, sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his forearms.

"What's that?" she asks suddenly.

Scabior looks up. She's looking at his left wrist. Slowly, he turns it towards her—an M-shaped scar, thin but stark against his tanned skin. Hermione looks away.

"It looked like—" she hesitates. "There were men, back in Kansas, who had scars on that arm. Knife scars. They had it done on purpose."

"Nah," he replies, turning it away from her, fingers curling into a fist though his expression remains serene. "This here's a burn. If you work for Lucius Malfoy, he brands you like the property you are."

Hermione stares. "You _worked_ for Lucius Malfoy?"

"Yeah," he says darkly. "Fifteen years. I don't recommend it, if you intend on getting your wages." He leans back again, eyes moving to the fire before he grins and looks at her. "I was a cowboy in Texas most of my life—the best cattle wrangler in the state. They called me _the Snatcher._ " He runs his hand over the rope at his belt.

"What happened?"

"Few years back, Lucius gets it into his mind to get his cattle to the railhead in Missouri—there's a good beef business in Chicago, see—and me and some of his best men got together and drove them Longhorns all the way up there. Longest, hardest trip of my life, I'll tell you that." He pauses, and reaches into his pocket for a cigarette, which he lights and inhales deeply before lowering it from his mouth, eyes still fixed on the fire. "But these idiots, right on the border, just a few miles from Sedalia, got it into their heads that our cattle would give theirs fever and trample their crops and whatnot—completely idiotic, mind you—and said they'd do away with anyone who stepped into their lands. There were too many of them; there wasn't anything else to do. We sold off the herd and made do with what we had.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy didn't take it too well. Didn't pay us a penny, had me and my fellas beat within an inch of our lives and told the law we'd gone and stolen his cattle from him."

Hermione says nothing for a moment, watching him stretched out on the dirt as he smokes, his lips twisted bitterly. "Must've been hard," she says.

"Well, that's life," he answers, and smiles as he looks at her, orange firelight dancing in his eyes. "It's hard. Gonna get a lot harder for Malfoy, too, when I get my hands on him. I'd been hoping I'd come across him around here, where the law's less present—why he left Texas beats me; I guess the ground's not fertile enough there or something. But it's a happy coincidence that rat-face was on his way to see old Lucius, or I might've missed the fact entirely. Speaking of which," and his smile turns into a grin. "Why d'you want to kill rat-face?"

"His name's Peter Pettigrew," she bites out. "He's even more of a rat than he looks."

"What'd he do to make a schoolteacher a murderer?"

She looks down at the lines she's drawn on the reddish dirt, now turned orange from the firelight. "I wasn't a schoolteacher then. I was seventeen. My parents had a homestead in Kansas and turns out it had gold. My Pa hired a lawyer—Pettigrew—and some weeks later my friend's parents were dead, and my parents were tortured so badly they didn't even remember me." She feels the scrape of the earth against her knuckles and realizes that she's digging her fist into the ground. "I think he's here to sell that land to Malfoy."

She lifts her head to look at him, and he leans sideways beside her, impossibly dark eyes fixed on hers; somehow they look so _mournful_.

"Well," he says lightly. "Who'd you kill, beautiful?"

"The man Pettigrew stole the documents for, the man who stole my family's land because he wanted our gold and did that to our parents—Tom Riddle."

Scabior's eyes widen. "Tom _Riddle_?"

"Yeah."

And a sudden grin spreads over his face, a sort of shocked bewilderment, and she sees his mind shift as he suddenly takes stock of her again, measuring her and redefining her and _discovering_ her, and—

"I've heard of you," he says slowly. "Quite the flurry you caused— _Hermione Granger_. Powerful frightening man Riddle was, I hear; people used to think he was nigh immortal." Scabior grins. "Takes more than a schoolteacher to kill ol' Tom Riddle."

Hermione shrugs slightly. "I told you; I wasn't a teacher then."

 **…**

Five years undercover is a long time, and yet it doesn't seem to be enough, somehow, to forget. She knows Harry still wakes up with nightmares in the middle of the night—Ron tells her this over breakfast, sometimes, not knowing that she has them as well. The jagged scar on Harry's forehead and the carved slur on her forearm are only the least of the marks the year 1863 left on them, and one of the hardest parts of being _Miss Jean_ is pretending they don't matter.

She's learned to hold up the act of a town girl with town girl ambitions and pretend that she _cares_ when Molly makes not-so-subtle suggestions of suitors, pretend she even _wants_ to allow Cormac to walk her back home, and she's learned to focus her mind only on things related to school and farm.

But sometimes she catches Harry and Ron standing on the porch, looking out to the horizon. Even Ron, who did not see half the things that they did, yearns for the open road again—but Harry and Ron are men, and they can get away with it. Harry has plans to marry Ginny sometime soon, and Ron has plans to travel with Charlie and follow buffalo across the trail.

And Hermione—

Hermione lies beside Scabior on the dirt and makes herself ignore the warmth of his arm pressed against hers, and listens to the chorus of insect life that surrounds them and the crackling of the dying embers of the fire. She breathes in the wild desert air and bears her name aloft like a banner… _Hermione Granger_ , and draws diagrams in her mind as she traces out their plan.

She can't see anything in the darkness, but she feels him shift and turn beside her, and feels the pressure of his eyes even though she knows he can't possibly see her.

"Why do you stay?" he asks.

"I don't know," she replies quietly after a moment. "I had to run away from Kansas. You have to end up _somewhere_."

Somehow, she can _feel_ his grin. His breath hits her cheek, and she wonders how close he is to her face and wonders if she wants to _know._ He lets out a low laugh.

"Sweetheart," he says softly. "That's the whole point of running. You don't have to 'end up' _anywhere_."

…

They leave the valley between the rocks three hours before sunrise, and Scabior immediately proves himself useful with his skill in the desert. Neither he nor his mare— _Mermaid_ is her name—need light to navigate the crags or avoid dangerous animals. He calls it _experience_ ; she calls it _luck_ , and smirks at his raised eyebrows.

When they reach Malfoy Ranch, he knocks out the guards so swiftly they hardly know what's happening, and they ride through clumps of Ironwood trees until they reach the large, white house, its windows dark, inhabitants sleeping—except for the sitting room, where despite the early hour, the figures of two men can be seen crouching over a table, poring over papers Hermione doesn't need to look at to recognize.

Lucius Malfoy jumps to his feet when they burst in through the patio door, blond hair bright against the dim light of the room.

"What devilry is this?"

But Hermione only has eyes for Peter Pettigrew, who scuttles backwards for cover, terror in his reddish eyes and a piece of paper clenched tightly in his gloved fist. It's like seeing a corpse come back to life; she has imagined him dead for _years_ , based off of rumors she and Harry foolishly believed, and his every movement fills her with revulsion, as if his body is animated by some work of the Devil and not by his own, cowardly soul.

"Been a while, hasn't it, Lucius?" Scabior says, and there's harsh violence in his tone. "How's the family? I heard little Draco's all grown up now and out in the fields—did you think you could come so far out West and not get cornered by me?"

"How _dare_ you," Malfoy snaps, but his eyes glance at the gun in Scabior's hands, and there's a tremor of uncertainty in his voice. "My men will be here any second now—"

" _Fifteen years_ I worked for you," Scabior says, voice lined with vicious anger. "And I've nothing to show for it but scars and a price on my head. I'm here to get my wages—and more, if I can. Empty your safe, _sir_."

And Hermione thanks the Lord that Malfoy doesn't know her—he has no children in town after all, and it's his son that runs most of his errands—so while he moves to open the safe behind him, she steps forwards towards Pettigrew.

"Get that gun away from my head, girl," Pettigrew snaps, though the way his eyes flit between her and Scabior gives away his fear.

"I thought you were dead," she says simply, and her finger lingers on the trigger. "Time to amend that."

Pettigrew lets out a gasp, and maybe he recognizes her, because he suddenly throws the paper in his hand at her face and bolts. Hermione fires.

She misses.

Scabior curses loudly and Malfoy flinches at the sound, collapsing against the wall with shaking limbs. Hermione ignores Scabior and runs, chasing after Pettigrew as he stumbles out the door they entered through, climbing onto the horse she took from town with some fumbling and taking off at a gallop before she can do anything to stop him.

Mermaid bucks slightly as she jumps onto her, but obeys at her insistence and follows after Pettigrew. The house behind her quickly shrinks in the distance, even as the lightening horizon announces sunrise.

 **...**

Scabior finds her standing at the edge of a cliff, gun in hand, her hair disheveled and blowing in the morning wind. Beside her are the two horses, nosing around some brambles.

Scabior dismounts from a thin, grey horse. Hermione turns to look at him and doesn't say a word until he's reached her.

"Where's Pettigrew?" he asks.

She motions towards the edge of the cliff with the gun, eyes straying to the shadowy bottom. "He lost his footing and fell over," she says. "I didn't even have to shoot him."

"Well," he replies, squinting up at the sun. "Malfoy's all done and tied up—I suppose I could go back'n kill him, but I dunno; didn't have it in me this time. The question is what you're gonna tell our friend the Sheriff when he comes looking."

Hermione doesn't reply. Slowly, she reaches out and kicks some of the crumbling rock down the cliff. It tumbles, swirling and mixing as it falls, and she estimates the speed with which it will touch the ground, the amount of time it has to hit it and disintegrate into a billion particles—

"Speaking of which," Scabior says suddenly, reaching into his shirt, which is already unbuttoned halfway. "Seems he dropped these; I do believe they're yours."

She looks at them: a map of an area in Kansas that she still sees every time she goes to sleep, and a deed, familiar scrawls of ink she knows by heart and which suddenly seem to be calling to her through the yellow paper.

He's watching her, dark eyes studiously examining her expression, like she's some sort of mystery he's enjoying—because Scabior doesn't feel her need to dissect and comprehend, he simply delights in the mystery—and she smiles. "Did you get what you needed?"

He shrugs. "Somewhat. He probably deserved to lose more, but ah—I'm feeling generous."

Hermione smirks, folding the papers and stuffing them into her dress. "I do believe you've gone soft, Scabior the Snatcher. Not much of an outlaw."

"Ah, sweetheart," he licks his lips, his gaze moving over her face. "I've been known to do _excellently_."

In the distance, she makes out a thin cloud of dust rising over the trail. Morning comes behind it. They climb onto their horses, leaving the grey one at its leisure. Scabior adjusts the hat on his head, his shirt billowing in the wind as he brings Mermaid to a stop beside her.

"So, beautiful," he says with a grin. "What now?"

"I don't know," she replies. The horse shifts restlessly beneath her. "Where do you end up when you run away from Arizona?"

Scabior laughs, and with a tap from his heels, they're off at a gallop down the cliff, a cloud of dust lifting up behind them.


End file.
